It's as Easy as ABC
by pistachio gelato
Summary: One consulting detective, one good doctor, and the numerous moments between them. - Where Sherlock complicates the alphabet with the third Letter, I is for Illness, now up!
1. B is for Bees

**A Fangirlish Note:** So the trailers came out today... and I'm dying. Seriously comatose in anticipation. How can you not when all the anagrams continuously spell: SHERLOCK RETURNS. I don't know if I can wait 11 more days after waiting so long... so I'm going to finally give in and write something. I know there's already a million drabble collections out there, but what the hell. Let's make it a million and one. The only structure is I'll go through the alphabet with the first theme I think of in relation to Sherlock. I'm also not going in order because that's so boringly conventional.

**A Necessary Disclaimer:** I don't own the awe-inspiring thing that is Sherlock. But that's fine because Godtiss does just grandly.

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><p><em>B is for Bees<em>

They had been full-out sprinting down a crowded street-market after the criminal when Sherlock came to a halt and crouched down by a bouquet of sunflowers and lilies.

This was not the first time the tall man had done something confusing and outright convoluted to John, so the ex-soldier decided that if Sherlock needed to apprehend those flowers instead of the man getting away, John would let him. The good doctor, in the meantime, would continue to give chase.

He quickly found he didn't need to, as he turned down the next street of busy stales to see a good half-dozen police officers lead by Lestrade swarming the perpetrator. Feeling a sense of accomplishment despite being unable to make the final tackle, John put his hands on his hips, gave a large exhale of breath, and turned around to relocate Sherlock.

While the consulting detective could easily be distracted, it seemed something about these flowers had uprooted him enough to stay rooted. Feeling the familiar tick to try and understand, John squatted down next to Sherlock.

"It's magnificent, isn't it John?"

John blinked at the bald flattery; he had never seen Sherlock so much as give a nod of recognition. To flat out state something to be marvelous-

"You're not on any of Mrs. Hudson's 'medicines,' are you?" John asked lightly, eyes still trained on Sherlock's pale face.

The man's gaze remained fixed, but John saw the slight elevation of his eyebrows.

Sighing, John decided that he should finally give a look to what Sherlock had found clear rapture in. When he finally moved his eyes from his partner's ever-intensive face, he blinked at the bright yellow and black of a bee.

He didn't know what he expected to see (maybe some speckled pattern never observed before in the lilies, or an odd number of petals in the sunflowers), but something so small, softly buzzing and seemingly insignificant was not expected. Murder-puzzles barely captured the genius' attention, how could he know something like this could? (Great - _another_ mystery to solve.)

"Why did you stop running for that?" John asked, eyes squinting as the bee fluttered its wings to hop to a new flower, continuing in its never ending collection of pollen.

"Lestrade would have detained him before us; there was no threat of escape."

"Right as always," John stated for the innumerable time as he stood up, dusting off his pants in habit.

Looking around, the doctor found that he was not the only one watching Sherlock. Maybe because it was almost the middle of summer and Sherlock was still wearing his flamboyant coat (like it was his partner and not the breathing, fellow human being aside of him), but John knew it was most likely because he was still staring at the bee, still as a statue.

"Sherlock."

The man called did not give a verbal response, but he did wave a hand for John to continue.

"Can we get going now?"

In the end, Sherlock got up not through John's insistence or the flower-seller's glares, but when the bee had finally finished and drifted off to search for other flowers or return to its hive. He stood with a rustle of his coat, flexed his fingers before bringing out his phone, and then was off to where John could still hear the commotion of the recent arrest.

John's eyes darted from Sherlock's retreating figure to the flower shop lady, who was looking at him expectantly. John gave a small shrug, but the woman's brow only furrowed further.

When John caught up with Sherlock, the police were just filing away and his partner's chest was puffed out like a peacock. When his sharp eyes fell back to John, his eyebrows rose again at what the blond was holding in the crook of his elbow.

Before John could start on the bright bouquet that Sherlock had seen so favorably minutes ago, John said with a mature roll of his eyes, "Yes, yes, the rumors."

Sherlock gave him a once-over again before he turned on his heel to leave. John gave Lestrade a single wave before following after.

As the two walked through the busy weekend-streets of London, the blond was careful to hold the flowers close to his chest to avoid them being battered about. It was oddly comforting how no one gave funny looks to the men walking by side-by-side with a bouquet of flowers between them. The consulting detective finally said something on the purchase when they got back to the flat as John was pulling out a vase.

"Why would you waste money on something so perishable? You are not a frugal spender like this purchase entails."

"Why do I bother getting milk?" John breezily asked back over the rushing of water from the tap.

Sherlock's lips were pressed in a thin, straight line as John unwrapped the grouping of stems and fit them into the chipped vase. He hesitantly arranged them for a few moments before picking them up with a slight nod of appreciation. When he got to the door frame and saw Sherlock blocking his way, it was his turn to raise his eyebrows.

There was a silent, seemingly tense moment as John looked over the flowers to Sherlock, who in turn looked determined not to move until a concrete answer was given. The taller man's shoulder involuntarily straightened when John said:

"Move."

"Excuse me?"

At his clipped question, it was obvious Sherlock would not be willingly clearing the way. John sighed yet again before edging his way around Sherlock's lanky body and through to the main room. John heard the floorboards creak as Sherlock turned to observe what he was doing.

Used to being studied, John ambled over to one of the large windows and placed the vase down. With his hands now free, he propped the glass pane wide open. Immediately the rushing sound of cars and people floated into the shared flat. The lily petals swayed in the hot breeze while the large sunflowers remained still. The brightness of their yellow in the sun created the movement.

He gave another self-satisfied nod before walking over and grabbed his laptop from the table. Still not looking at Sherlock watching him, John opened it and began typing.

Sherlock crossed the room in a few strides and his nose crinkled as he continued to study the flowers and their new position.

"You cannot possibly have gotten the flowers merely to believe more bees would congregate to it," Sherlock said as he situated himself on the couch.

John shrugged, pretending not to see Sherlock's lips curve up. John also pretended not to notice how many times Sherlock's eyes flitted to check for the buzzing bees throughout the duration of the afternoon and even after they'd returned from dinner.

When Lestrade brought up the sunflowers and lilies again the next day, John convincingly told him the shop lady had not allowed him to leave without paying for the flowers Sherlock apparently ruined by breathing on them for a good ten minutes.

Just like John, Sherlock pretended not to know he was lying.

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><p>Posted: 12.21.2011<p>

**A Request**: Review?


	2. T is for Tongue

**A T-Tied Note:** It was a real battle between 'tongue' and 'tea,' but eventually Martin Freeman's amazing habit won the show. And I fit in tea anyway, so HAH!

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><p><em>T is for Tongue<em>

It was as deadly as they came, without a hint of remorse or mercy as it haunted Sherlock's thoughts. It darted in and out constantly, without any true rhythm and without much coaxing. While John said Sherlock had a flare for exaggeration, Sherlock was sure that addressing said adversary as one of his largest puzzles in life was not hyperbole in the least. No matter how many cases he'd solved, this one still haunted him daily. Constantly pressing against his brain just as it pressed against John.

Sherlock was usually awake before the sun was up and before formally explained sworn-enemy, but it was a fairly early riser as well. As the consulting detective's eyes honed in on it darting about, his clear eyes narrowed in concentration.

There were so many questions, and so little answers. It was simply unacceptable.

"Ok, what am I doing now? Or did? Or _going_ to do?" John asked as he carefully put down his cup of tea. He did it slowly, as if Sherlock was truly a wild panther and would spring at any fast activity.

"How you handle said beverage," Sherlock answered calmly as his eyes narrowed at the steaming mug. He cleared his throat a moment later, finding it stiff and crackly from not being used in hours.

"You stayed up all night again, didn't you?"

Sherlock looked away then, tightening his midnight robe tighter around his lean figure as if it was a suitable answer.

"Sherlock," John practically sighed his name in judgement before ambling over to his flatmate. Sherlock barely repressed the urge to look up at his (no doubt concerned-laced) face as John placed his cup down before him. And without a word, John left to get ready for the day.

The other man leaped up to the cup when he heard the the click of the bathroom door and the hiss of a shower beginning. Long fingers hesitantly grabbed up the stripped mug, pulling it closer to his face for inspection. He could see the trail of where his enemy had been, seemingly invisible if Sherlock hadn't known where and how to look. He twisted the mug around absently, watching the tag of the tea (chai - how un-Queen-and-country of John) before he brought it back under his examination. He gave an experimental sniff; the bridge of his nose crinkled at the odd mixture of dairy and sweet.

"It's not poison."

Sherlock's grip on the mug visibly tightened, and he had to ignore the stinging of heat stinging at his fingers. After a few tense moments where he scolded himself, Sherlock looked from where the familiar voice had sounded from and gave a half-meant glare. The shower was still on in the background, but John was still robed and dry. So Sherlock wasn't the only half-clever one who slept here.

The older man shrugged once more before leaving, and this time Sherlock waited to hear the sound of water falling alter before taking a sip.

.

Sherlock looked at the crime scene with demure annoyance at both the see-through case and the consistent petulance of the police. If he hadn't arrived as early as he had, forensics would have mucked up the trail leading from the house to the nearby field and following forest. Thankfully there was at least one competent cabbie in all of London.

He turned back to John and Lestrade, the former taking down notes absently as the later rattled on about the case. Sherlock nearly snorted at the elementary nature of it all, but then his interest was perked as _it_ made an appearance.

It quickly ghosted out and over John's bottom lip before retreating back into his warm and damp home. The next moment John asked something that was the slightest bit insightful. And after Lestrade had answered slowly, thinking himself, John countered with points Sherlock could have figured since he was six, but necessary observations none-the-less.

Sherlock allowed John to play and practice for a few more minutes before he cut in and explained the entire situation in a handful of sentences and seconds.

Soon enough they were off in another cab, leaving the silver-haired detective to do the dirty work. The two men watched the large estate properties fly by, and John wondered how these people lived like this. In such large houses, closed off from the city and hub of life. Maybe that was the reason why the step-daughter had stabbed her new 'Mummy' a dazzling six times in the chest before fleeing to the thicket.

At the thought of the crime scene, John gave a little huff of aggravation. He had felt like he'd been just beginning to understand (especially about the gardener, who had admitted to the murder but was only covering for the young woman he'd become smitten with apparently years ago). Then Sherlock had swooped in with his massive coat and even larger brain and explained it away with ease, like an elementary-level math problem.

Sherlock turned from the window to John at the soft sound of a grunt, and almost smirked as John's tongue came out to run over his lips. Sherlock did not know ever instance why it came out, but when John was either thinking or aggrivated, it often made its presence known.

"Stop acting like I spoiled Santa Clause instead of a crime scene," Sherlock said offhandedly over the blare of a moving truck passing by them (someone with a lot of heavy belongings, probably wooden furniture and musty books, by how low the back of the vehicle was).

John's eyes darted to him for a moment before turning back to the view outside. Sherlock didn't know what was the correct emotion to feel when his partner didn't open his mouth, or even for his tongue to dart out, the entire way back home.

.

Sherlock crept up the stairs one at a time. He did it with such a level of stealth it was as if he intended to grab items and steal away into the night like a common thief. No, what he was doing was much more dangerous, as he was en route to infiltrating an ex-soldier's room.

When he got to the landing, knees remaining bent and muscles ready to dash away, he slunk to the door. Sherlock saw it was wide open and street lights streamed across the modest room, illuminating the sharp curves of furniture and his flatmate underneath a rumbled comforter.

One of the blond's arms were over the blanket and sat on his chest, the other one hidden beneath patterned bedding. He was facing away from the window, causing shadows to greatly obstruct his face, but Sherlock wasn't interested in that right now. What he was interested in was open for public viewing, free of charge.

John's mouth hung open unattractively, a soft snore of heavy breathing echoing out of it. Sherlock felt his spine straighten the slightest bit as he sighted that elusive tongue in it's natural habitat, rarely so vulnerable and open to view.

He tip-toed closer still, his hands now grasped behind his back, as if to stop the tall man from doing anything foolish. It was all John's fault really; all of it. From how during the day his tongue made impromptu, distracting guest appearances to now, with his mouth wide open and egging Sherlock on.

Sherlock dipped his head lower, feeling curls move up and off his forehead at the new angle. From this close-up view it looked like a perfectly normal tongue.

Before he could think the action over, Sherlock's fingers shot out and grabbed it, and John awoke with a snort. Yet after the few startled moments of waking up with someone's fingers in his mouth and saw it was only his ever erratic flatmate, his eyelids and shoulders dropped back tried to mumble something, but Sherlock was still holding his tongue and causing and speech to be impossible.

"It's for a case, John. Now go back to sleep," Sherlock said as he finally released the thing that he still couldn't figure out. Why did it avert his attention to such a degree? It looked, and now he knew felt, like an orthodox, alive tongue.

The doctor muttered something unintelligible (although it did sound something between 'cock-and-bull' and 'bullshit') before burying his face into his pillow, causing Sherlock's lips to pucker in distaste. Well now he couldn't even see the damn thing.

He stood with a start and stared at his sleeping flatmate's back for a few moments before turning to leave. He rubbed off John's spit onto his pajama pants as he left the room and began walking down the stairway, not even bothering to quiet his steps anymore.

.

"You do realize you all but make love to your tea."

Maybe it was the uncharacteristic phrase or the seriousness of Sherlock's tone, but the tall man watched in interest as John began choking. After a rough minute of hacking and clearing his lungs, John turned to him with a look of pure confusion.

"You may also want to condition yourself to wait longer before drinking the beverage. You have a tendency to recklessly burn your tongue in your haste," Sherlock continued to talk and fill any encroaching silence. His eyes remained on his laptop screen before him, blocking John's sight of his fingers absently crossed and uncrossed.

"Er, thanks?" John's hesitant voice finally sounded out.

Maybe it was that tone of confusion and wanting to know why, but Sherlock found himself lunging off the couch and over to the chair John was sitting in. The man started at the sudden action and invasion of private space, but he did not make to move, only cradling his mug closer to his chest. John opened his mouth to say something, and that was when Sherlock grabbed his tongue again.

"'Er'ock!"

Sherlock remained silent, and simply moved his fingers this way and that, the fleshy muscele still clamped in his fingers and moving on demand. John made a move to stand, but Sherlock easily pinned him down by placing his other hand on his shoulder, pinning him down with his over-arching weight. Sherlock noted John wasn't fighting back anywhere near full capacity. Even if he had the advantage of gravity, Sherlock knew John could easily throw him off. Or maybe he just really didn't want to spill any of his tea.

"This muscular hydrostat is naturally a fascinating part of anatomy, especially in humans from not only manipulating food for masticulation, but from its secondary function of phonetic articulation as well. Yet yours seems to have more uses than articulating speech, eating or naturally cleaning your teeth," Sherlock rattled, not focusing on his words by on John.

When the man beneath him made it clear he was about to bite Sherlock's intrusive thumb and index finger, Sherlock retracted his grip.

"Jeez, Sherlock," John said before he moved his tongue, almost experimentally, around his mouth. "You tell me to take it easy on the tea for my tongue and then literally molest it yourself."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Molestation would imply the second party was clearly unhappy with contact, yet you did not immediately threaten me with immature biting. More importantly, I do not understand the obsession either."

"Ob-Obsession?" John stuttered baldly, his expression similarly bland. "With my mouth?"

"Specifically your tongue."

"My tongue."

"Correct."

"You're obsessing over _my tongue_."

"I do not understand why you're repeating something I've just stated."

John sighed and ran a hand over his face, almost tiredy. It was then that Sherlock realized he hadn't retracted his other hand or moved away, so he inched his fingers off of the man's jumper and straightened back up and retreated to a more polite distance.

"Why?" John asked simply.

"I have debating over that for some time myself," Sherlock said, eyes remaining on John's mouth.

"Well, come on then," John sighed as he waved Sherlock back.

Sherlock blinked smarty at him in response.

"I know how your projects go. Never abandoned. So come on, get a good look and let's get this over with."

Again, the dark-haired man continued to study John's face, as if to try and determine if he was lying or being foolish, maybe even childish with a false lure. Tired of waiting, John opened his mouth lazily.

Sherlock was at his mouth the next moment, now both hands prying John's mouth open wider, as if the evidence to their recent case was hidden underneath his gums instead of any wisdom teeth. Yet even with this unrestricted access, Sherlock again didn't see anything unorthodox, anything physically intriguing that would cause such attention.

"In proportion, fine temperature and wetness," Sherlock began to rattle off. "No pungent smell, nothing out of the ordinary..."

He let his fingers slip away from John's mouth and ran them through his hair, not caring about the saliva or germs. It was infurating - why indeed?

John was rubbing his jaw from the abuse and wondering if he should say anything when Sherlock's eyes widened and his mouth opened in a silent gasp. John knew that look, and he sighed in relief. Sherlock had figured it out.

"If I cannot determine it through sight, smell, touch or hearing, I shall test next what it tastes like!" Sherlock exclaimed as he moved forward on John again, and John barely had enough time and sense to duck down and away from the taller man.

"Sherlock! You cannot be serious!" John said as he narrowly avoided Sherlock's arms yet again.

"This puzzle is based not on intellect but primal instinct, and so should be viewed through what propels it: human sensory! I've exhausted the other options, now stop being a petulant child and _come here John!_"

When Mrs. Hudson came in with tea some minutes later, she decided to come back another time when the two men weren't bustling about, knocking over books and throwing things as they chased circles around the other.

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><p><strong><strong>Posted: 12.28.2011

**A Personal Note**: Saw _War Horse_ today. God I hate how emotional (read: can't stop crying like a sissy) I get during war period-piece movies because of the magnitude of the time they represent, but it was worth it because: not only Benedict Cumberbatch, but Tom Hiddleston as well. On screen at the same time. _The same fucking time._

**An Ending Note Actually About the Story**: This one slightly got a little away from me... haha? As always, feedback?


	3. I is for Illness

_I is for Ill_

Sherlock was sick and John was away at some doctors conferance in Wales.

Sherlock had already texted his doctor countless times, yet had only received a clipped '_This is what you get when you don't eat and sleep. Get medicine and drink tea._' While the former advice seemed obvious, the second seemed inconsequencial. There really was something about John and tea; or maybe it was just like that with all of Britain.

Of course instead of following said advice, Sherlock searched for John's nearest jumper, shimmied into it, and then lied on the couch to wait for his death to come.

This was was how John found the man: curled up in the fetal position with the windows wide open, a few snowflakes migrating in. Colorfully cursing, and saying this was why he got sick, John closed it, cranked up the heater, and went to wake up a slightly blue-lipped Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, get your smart-ass up!"

He was having none of it, and John barely missed a few low-aimed kicks.

Decided that if John couldn't verbally or physically wake him up, he might as well try mentally. So the blond began asking questions, none of which Sherlock gave a real answer but just mumbled. Finally, he asked the quesiton he'd wanted to ask the moment he'd sighted him on the couch.

"Why are you wearing my jumper, Sherlock?"

"I wanted comfort," he said drowsily but still coherently, eyes still refusing to open.

"You idiot oaf," John said affectionately as he rumbled damp curls on his forehead. He frowned at the touch from the heat he felt beneath.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked drowsily, as it seemed the last question had woken him up enough. "This is not Wales."

"Again, always right," John said lightly. "But knowing your self-destructive streaks, I was needed here more than at some conference.

His phone buzzed the next moment, and John rolled his eyes at the mandatory Mycroft text. He didn't need to be told where the medicine cabinent was; John was the one who had instituted it. But apparently there was now perscription medication sitting pretty in it to get rid of Sherlock's fever.

John stuffed the medicine in his jeans before going back to Sherlock, who had done the impossible and had curled in on himself even more. Sighing, John hoped he had at least half the strength he still did in the army, both in strength and bravery.

Sherlock sqwalked as John lifted the larger man over his shoulder, holding him like a bag of potatoes. Although, a bag of potatoes probably weighed more than this sack of elbows and knees did. John had a sudden tightness in his chest at thinking Sherlock might lose weight from this bought of sickness. Sure, it was just a cold, but Sherlock never did anything half-assed. If he was sick, he was going to be sick.

While his weight wasn't a problem, the squirming and weak pouding against his back sure was. Thankfully he didn't have to climb any stairs and arrived fast enough at Sherlock's danger-zone room. He lowered him slowly, but Sherlock was fast to scramble out of his arms. John furrowed his brow in worry as Sherlock looked more ruffled than before. When John moved foward again, Sherlock pressed his feet against his chest and kicked him off.

"Get changed," John ordered, a little breathless from Sherlock's hard push, before he left. When he returned, he had to resist the urge to sigh in relief. Sherlock was sitting up patiently with sheets pooling around his lap, obviously waiting for John to come back.

"I don't need medicine," Sherlock said grumpily from his bed as his eyes darted to the pills in John's palm.

"Don't be sour, now," John said, telling himself to not snap at his sick flatmate. "I even brewed you some tea to wash it down with."

"I don't need it."

"You don't want it," John corrected.

Sherlock crossed his arms, and John ticked a smile as he was still wearing his jumper. It looked ridiculous on him, with the bright red and blue pattern on the top while the sleeves were inches too short.

"If you take this, I'll get you a better jumper. Deal?"

Sherlock eyed him, calculating, and John wondered if he was trying not to be too eager by the way his fingers twitched at the crook of his elbows.

"Fine," he finally snapped as he extended both hands.

John made sure he saw him swallow, and Sherlock even opened his mouth willingly, moving his tongue to show nothing was underneath there either. Nodding, John left the room to go back to his own and dig through is drawers for any large. He found, in slight chagrin, that the largest one was bright red and green, years old from his aunt when he was just small and everyone thought he'd shoot up like his sister. It was frayed at the sleeves, but it was thick and warm and the sleeves would fit Sherlock better.

He hesitantly came back with the sweater folded to see Sherlock already bare-chested and waiting. Honestly John was surprised Sherlock didn't walk around barely clothed in the winter as much as he did in the other seasons.

They wordlessly exchanged jumpers. Sherlock hesitantly sniffed the sweater before throwing it over his shoulders with significantly less grace than usual.

"Now leave me," Sherlock said as he curled into a ball.

John sighed and said in warning, "Don't punch me in the face," before leaning forward and moving the blankets to cover his torso.

Sherlock seemed determined not to look at him; he only buried his face further into the jumper's thick sleeves.

Closing his door softly, John looked down at the jumper. He slowly leaned down and sniffed; instantly his nose was enveloped in Sherlock's scent. John blinked down at what was supposed to be his clothing and realized Sherlock must have worn it a good amount of time before he'd come barging in.

Inside, Sherlock snorted into his pillow. He had guessed John would wait to smell it until he was at the washer, but even he could be wrong sometimes.

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><p>Posted: 2.9.2012<p> 


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